


Private Audience

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, M/M, Polyamory, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rush has grown quite fond of you in our travels, and I have enjoyed your company myself. And Athlum will always welcome more men of valor." He meets Caedmon's eyes steadily. "Will you join us?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Audience

The summons itself is not unusual. Caedmon is leader of the Silver Falcons; he has reason to speak with lords regularly, conferring with them on matters of defense. He suspects that, despite the late hour named in the message, this call to Athlum Castle is another of the same. The guards who meet him at the gate recognize him, and allow him to pass freely—he must have earned the marquis's trust in full measure during those battles against the Conqueror's forces.

That thought first gives Caedmon pause. Athlum is a small state, but she is one of the foremost military powers in the wake of that war: her independence is secured, her generals capable, her troops seasoned. Why would Athlum, of all places, need the aid of the Falcons? Caedmon hesitates in the hallway leading toward the throne room.

No. There is an easy way to discover why he is wanted here. He walks up the steps and crosses the threshold into the throne room, his eyes adjusting smoothly to the torchlight. The guards have been dismissed here, as well; Caedmon's ears swivel back at the lack of security, then forward again at the sign of trust this represents. The marquis is seated on his throne, the dais raising him high enough to meet Caedmon's eyes easily. The only company he has in the room is—is Rush, seated on the floor at his feet, head pillowed on his thigh.

The scene is so unlike what Caedmon has come to expect of mitra, his fur prickles alert beneath his armor. "Lord David," he says, inclining his head. "You called for me."

"I did," the marquis says. "I am glad to see you well."

Rush fidgets beside him, looking up. "Come on, Dave, don't be stuffy about it," he says. "You make people nervous like that."

The marquis smiles down at Rush fondly, running his fingers through Rush's hair. "There are formalities to be observed," he says. He looks at Caedmon again. "Rush has agreed to be my consort," he says. "To be," he hesitates, "of my pride."

To hear those words from any other mitra, Caedmon would pin his ears in suspicion—but the marquis learned his power at Torgal's knee, and if any non-sovani knows what that means, it is he. "Congratulations to you both," Caedmon says. He has long expected this. His indulgences with Rush were not something that could last.

"Thank you," the marquis says graciously. "I did not ask you here only to give you the news," he goes on, when Rush looks restless again. "Rush has grown quite fond of you in our travels, and I have enjoyed your company myself. And Athlum will always welcome more men of valor." He meets Caedmon's eyes steadily. "Will you join us?"

He cannot mean—"The Falcons are an independent force," Caedmon says; it's the safer way to read the request. "Their strength is their lack of ties to one state."

The marquis shakes his head. "I am not asking the Silver Falcons to join Athlum's ranks," he says. "As a warrior seeking another, I am asking for your throat."

Caedmon's mouth goes dry; his eyes dilate with shock. He had wished there were some way to stay with them, to have more than those encounters on the road; some way to not be parted even though the two of them were so clearly paired. He had thought those sweet moments could lead no further, and certainly not to this, an old sovani tradition that is now dying with their people so scattered. To be joined with both of them—to belong to a pride, even one so unconventional—

"Please say yes," Rush says. "I really like you, we both do, and—mmnph," he finishes, as the marquis kisses him silent.

The words the marquis murmurs against Rush's mouth are just audible with Caedmon's ears pricked toward them: "The decision must be his own, Rush. This is much to ask, even of one who cares deeply for you."

That degree of understanding is what decides him: the marquis is someone he can trust with this. Caedmon's upper hands reach for the buckles of his helmet, while his lower ones unsheathe his blades. He kneels, laying his weapons down, lifting his helm free. The marquis rises, and walks toward him.

"My arms to your cause," Caedmon says softly; "my will to your will; my throat to your fangs." The ritual words feel strange in his mouth, the weight of centuries on them, long leagues between Athlum and the mountaintop where he first heard this ceremony performed.

"Your health in my keeping," the marquis answers. "Your honor, my duty. Your place at my hearth assured." He leans down and Caedmon tips his head back, throat bared in ritual submission. The marquis—Lord David—David—leader of Caedmon's pride, and he has no idea what to call him—opens his mouth and catches the column of Caedmon's throat carefully between rows of blunt teeth. Submission makes all of Caedmon's limbs go slack, acknowledging his new lord.

David straightens, raises one hand to beckon without looking back. Rush rises from the floor, loose-limbed and easy, ambling down the dais steps to join them. "Now, huh?" he says.

"Yes," David says. "Now." He cups Caedmon's jaw in one hand, holding him still, keeping his attention focused upward, as Rush begins to strip Caedmon of his armor. The vulnerability should be alarming; a warrior does not suffer others to disarm him lightly. But David's eyes are fierce and clear, and the look in them says, _You are my pride. You are mine._

Rush's hands are quick and deft on the catches of Caedmon's armor, more comfortable with the multiple fastenings than mitra hands should be—and so unmistakably Rush, so kind, stroking Caedmon's fur in impulsive gestures—of admiration? reassurance?—as he lifts the plates of armor away. He rubs his cheek against one of Caedmon's upper shoulders, as if he could leave his scent there; as if Caedmon is to be his, as well as David's. It's a pleasant thought, warm and welcoming.

"Down," David says, calm and certain, stroking Caedmon's jaw and then releasing him. Caedmon lets himself spill backward, going limp under his lord's regard; he finds himself caught, cradled in Rush's lap. David straddles his thighs, kneeling above him, and places both hands flat against Caedmon's chest.

"Yes," Caedmon whispers.

David rakes his nails down Caedmon's chest and over the fine fur of his belly; he is rough where a sovani would need to be cautious, his soft mitra nails in no danger of doing real harm. It feels _good_ , sensual, intimate, and Caedmon finds he is writhing beneath his lord's hands.

"Oh, man," Rush says. "Please tell me I get to do that too."

David laughs, warm and fond. "Go ahead," he says. He looks Caedmon in the eyes. "You'll have no trouble satisfying us both, will you?"

"I'm—yours," Caedmon rasps, as Rush's hands join David's; what ought to be only a symbol of submission and ownership becomes a sweet indulgence, coaxing a purr from the depths of his chest the likes of which he hasn't felt in decades. Above him, Rush smiles, broad and earnest. David's scent is sharpening, gaining the salt-edged heat of mitra arousal. He was born to lead a pride, if the surrender of a warrior excites him so. "Please," Caedmon says. All his hands flex, but he leaves them where they are, waiting on his lord's wishes.

"I think perhaps the rest of this is best carried on someplace more private," David says.

"Sounds good to me," Rush says. "This makes us all sovani married, so now it's time for the honeymoon, yeah?"

David smiles at him fondly. "Something like that, yes," he says. He rises to his feet, releasing Caedmon as he steps back. "Rush, if you could bring his armor, please."

"Sure thing, Dave," Rush says.

Caedmon eases to a kneeling position, looking up to meet David's eyes. David nods. "Follow me," he says.

"I am at your command," Caedmon says, and rises to obey.


End file.
